Groom of Eris

Death skeleton

“This isn’t real,” the voice says,
Whispering through the ether of darkness:
A black void that occupies my mind.
It is without form this voice speaks,
No consciousness but my own
To sustain its malevolence,
Subsisting entirely on my paranoia
Because I don’t know how to exist
Free of the anxiety born from my insecurity.
Would I slay this love before it even flourishes
Because of the ramblings of a nonexistent madman?
Reality has offered nothing but assurance
And a smile now etched into my memory,
But I would lay waste to it within the fabrication
Of the personal hell that resides inside my mental bastille,
And shout aspersions into the vacuum of space
To mollify the injustice of this war I wage
On the innocents I intend to sacrifice
To this god of death and despair
Who rules my perverse dominion with a pale hand.
While in rationality I accept
Every word I hear is insanity—
A plea from a deity losing his power—
I still listen when he says, “This will never last.”
And god help me, I’m beginning to believe it.

The Judge

insecurity

My life is thus:
The judge sits at his bench,
Demeaning and destructive;
His verdict offers no justice,
His sentence serves no rehabilitation.
Before him, I would be a prisoner
Shackled in solitary evermore;
Any attempt at release
Would be mocked and chided
Because, in his words,
I am worthless,
No longer any good to society.
I certain am not deserving
Of an angel’s touch or affections,
And to try would be wasted effort.
There is no sense in prevailing,
For these years alone have taught me nothing
But how to wallow and loathe myself.
His accusations sting caustic,
Like a shard of ice through my heart,
And though he has no right,
No position to castigate me,
I listen to him all the same,
Knowing even as I do what I am losing,
What I am passing up,
What I have let slip out of my life.
This judge that sits before me
Is invisible to the world,
Deaf to their ears,
But to me he is more real than anyone,
And his voice is the loudest,
Drowning out any pleas,
Any compliments,
And every opportunity.

Epics and Tragedies

Teddy bear park

With the love we shared,
The ambition we possessed,
And the future we craved,
We were authoring
Our own personal epic,
But you have become a tragedy;
And make no mistake:
A tragedy is not some love story
Where a man gives his life for his lover
And through selflessness is redeemed.
There is no salvation in tragedy,
No hope or beauty;
It is ugly, ending in the ruin of a soul.
You have buried everything that is best about you
Beneath a life of recurring habit
And the company of the wretched,
Who would use your gifts
To sap the light from your spirit
And somehow leave you craving more of their abuse.
You were given the love you deserve,
But in the face of happiness
You offered only repudiation.
I know not why, but I cannot stand by,
Watching you destroy your potential,
Your brilliance;
And if this is the life you choose,
You will end up as alone as you think you are now.
You will not have my comfort or kindness—
Which you claim to cherish so deeply—
Or the solace of true friendship;
You will only have a barren future,
Razed by your search for instant gratification
And your unconditional disbelief
That you can rise above these tribulations.
I hope to god this is not your fate,
But it’s out of my hands,
And soon, I fear, out of my sight.

Renewal Through Bloodshed

River of blood

You are my hubris,
My succubus,
Feeding on every ounce of pessimism
Draining from this puerile cadaver.
You sit across from me,
Smiling in the way only you can,
Delighting in how your mere presence
Is enough to derail my sensibilities.
Since time immemorial,
Or so it seems,
You have been there,
Knife in hand waiting to thrust:
To make me bleed,
Watch me squirm,
And suckle my wounds
With your infernal agenda;
But by the gods of Olympus,
Valhalla,
And the heavens,
I will no longer deign to live under your heel—
Your oppressive sadism.
You are a witch,
A demon,
And I will strangle you,
Eviscerate you,
Disembowel you,
And watch your blood cleanse these streets
Of the filth you’ve perforated them with,
And I will not cease
Until you are ash at my feet.

Pressured

Ripped heart

You have me caught in a vice,
Squeezing tighter as you twist my mind,
Preying upon my fragility,
Pouncing upon my insecurities
To wrap these strings around my wrists
And make me dance the way you want me to.
Every time I stand up straight,
Expending all my might to snap free,
You twist me right back up in your strings,
Using public displays and adoration
To spin a web of manipulation,
Because you do not want me free;
You do not care to see me happy.
You want me obeisant, feigning smiles
To soothe your insecurities
So you do not sleep alone at night;
But even beside you I am in solitary—
A specter next to you, lifeless—
Wearing only the masks you fix upon my face,
Speaking only the words you want to hear,
And, with each step, further crushing my soul
Until the weight of your pressure
At long last snaps me in two.

Death by Paper Airplane

Paper airplane words

I’m lying on the floor
Waiting for a goddamned text,
But the phone is silent—
The only sound the hum of the laptop
And my own stilted breathing.
I’m waiting for an indication
That I’m not alone in this struggle,
That there is someone out there
Who cares, who feels this pain
Simply because it’s infected my heart,
But the phone is silent.
I think of reaching out,
Being proactive for once,
But crippling trepidation stills my hand
And my mind collapses in on itself,
Pressured by the weight of insecurity
And one stupid word that derails my train of thought.
The cacophony in my head is stifling,
Unbearable,
But the phone is silent.
I don’t even know which is worse anymore:
The loneliness or the total lack of productivity,
Because this imbalance is repressive,
Halting any motivation to stand up or even breathe;
And then the panic sets in:
Knowing I am wasting the hours by lying here,
Accomplishing nothing, becoming nothing,
And again I try to reach out
But I’m paralyzed by the fear of your disapproval.
The clock speeds by like a freight train,
But the phone is silent.

You’ve given up on me, haven’t you?

These, the Wings of Mirthless Musing

Can’t see how I’ll survive tomorrow
When yesterday’s gaffes still ruin my psyche,
Laying waste to this corporation of self-confidence,
Always reminding what I’ve missed out on.

It’s like my memory of you is parasitic,
Latching onto every thought and sucking it dry
So that there’s nothing in my mind but you
And a ridicule to afflict what should be divine.

As I replay our colloquy frame by frame
I torture myself with words I did not say;
Trudging through the minutiae after the fact,
Even though it makes no shred of difference.

This is the nature of my self-centeredness—
Wallowing where I should be reveling,
For a chance encounter with you is a gift
Not to be profaned by bouts of insecurity.